


holes in my apologies

by dwarrowkings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drunk!Derek, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/pseuds/dwarrowkings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re drunk,” Stiles says, because Derek hasn’t said anything. He’s not one of those drunks that confess everything, apparently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which Emily makes me write things because she knows me too well. Also, title from We Are Young, by fun. which is totally cliche, but I don't actually care because it works.

Derek stumbles into Stiles’s window, and that’s how he knows that something is very wrong with Derek. He didn’t even get the frame open, He just stares at the mesh screen in front of his face like it’s betrayed him. He puts his hand up to touch it, careful like it might hurt him, and jerks his hand away when the cool metal touches his skin. 

Stiles is trying his level best not to laugh at the picture he makes, because something is very wrong. He goes to the window, and presses the catch on the screen to push it up. Derek’s face lights up like Stiles has just made his day, cheeks flushed and scrunched up in a smile. Stiles jerks back. Wow. Way to be actually very gorgeous, Derek. 

Derek sticks his hands out, making a little grabby motion. Stiles grabs them and before he realizes what is going on, Derek is pulling himself into Stiles’s room. 

He sways on his feet a little, when he’s fully in, and if Stiles weren’t very very sure before that something was _danger, Will Robinson_ wrong, he’d be laughing his ass off, because Derek is drunk. Like, three sheets to the wind, putting pots on your head and swordfighting with the fireplace pokers drunk. 

Not that Stiles knows anything about that.

“You’re drunk,” Stiles says, because Derek hasn’t said anything. He’s not one of those drunks that confess everything, apparently.

“Argents tried to capaca-intate no, inpate crap no, in-something me with bulfswane, but instead of making sleepy times, I just went…” Derek twirls his finger around, like that’s an answer and smiles some more at Stiles. 

It’s disconcerting.

Stiles makes the decision that his dad would rather him harbor a former-fugitive with a vaguely (and totally correct) skeezy reputation overnight rather than inflict dangerous drunk people onto the world. 

Derek’s swaying has become more severe, and Stiles is afraid he might fall down if he doesn’t sit soon.

“So they got you with wolfsbane,” Stiles starts, herding Derek towards his bed. Derek sits down on the edge of it, bounces twice with a weird smile, and then flops down sideways. He mashes his face into Stiles’s comforter, and mumbles “Yeah.”

“Well, shouldn’t we like, be trying to flush it out of your system?” Stiles asks, because the last time that Derek had had wolfsbane, there had almost been limb severing, and there was definitely black vomit, and Stiles wasn’t sure what he could do to remove that kind of stain from his carpet. Blood or black vomit. 

“Not strong enough,” Derek mumbles into Stiles’s comforter, grabbing fistfulls of it and shoving it in the general direction of his nose. He looks blissed out and sleepy, and he may actually be scenting Stiles’s comforter. 

“Okay, so it’ll just… wear off. Like alcohol or something?” Dealing with drunk people is something that Stiles is good at. Or, rather, caring for people. Drunk or not. 

“‘xactly like alcohol, Stiles! You’re so smart.” Stiles is starting to freak out, because Derek doesn’t normally compliment him. They have a silent bro-code nod of mutual appreciation, and Derek may have thanked him for that one time with the knife and the salt, but they _never speak of it._

This though, is something completely different. Derek is sniffing his bedclothes and telling Stiles he is smart and _he came here when he was drunk, when he should have gone home._

“Derek,” Stiles starts, and Derek blinks his eyes open, and he looks so sweetly innocent that Stiles can’t even do whatever he was about to do. “Nevermind buddy. Let’s get your boots off and we’ll talk about it in the morning when you’re not drooling on my blankets, hey?”

Derek smiles, seemingly content, and Stiles reconciles himself to a night spent on the couch. 

“Thanks, Stiles. ‘re a good friend.” And Stiles has never contemplated being _friends with Derek_ because mainly he’s been trying not to die, but he guesses they kind of are. There’s only so many times you can not-die with someone before they know you pretty well. They busted past that threshhold very early on in their relationship.

“I sure am, Mr Drunky McDrunkalpha.” 

He saves the comments about Derek owing him because it’ll probably even out in the end anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek may or may not have gotten captured intentionally, and turns up at Stiles's windowsill again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk Derek again, because I can, apparently, be bullied into writing more.  
> This time with 150% more feels.

“Oh now you're doing this on purpose,” Stiles sighs, opening the window for Derek.

Derek gives him a strange look and sways inside.

“I always do things on purpose,” Derek says, adorably confused. His hands have settled on Stiles's shoulders for support, and they're very warm. Stiles bursts out laughing at him.

“Of course you do.” Stiles chuckles. Derek almost falls over when Stiles moves away from the sill, making Derek's hands fall from his shoulders. “To what do I owe this visit?” Stiles asks, and Derek still looks confused.

“What?” Derek asks, like Stiles is the weird one.

“Derek, this is the second time in a week that you've shown up, essentially drunk at my window. Either you're getting caught and doped up by our friendly neighborhood hunters on purpose, or you're just terrible at not getting caught.” Stiles kind of thinks it's the second one. Okay, so he's hoping it's the first one, because the second one would suck.

Derek blushes, red rising high on his cheekbones and down, disappearing into the too-long-to-be-stubble too-short-to-be-beard hair on his face. “Sorry,” he says, like this is anything to apologize for.

“Derek. If you're in trouble, I'm flattered that you trust me enough to help. But I don't think that's what this is. You don't have to be somehow incapacitated to spend time with me. I know that we haven't exactly spent much time together outside of trying not to die, but that doesn't mean we have to be dying to spend time together.” Derek's flush gets deeper. He looks very embarrassed, and this is how Stiles knows that Derek hasn't quite worked out why he's here. Stiles sighs, rubs his forehead, and pushes Derek towards the bed.

“I have homework to do, can you sleep if I leave the lamp on?” He asks, already flipping the switch for the top light and plunging the room into half-shadows.

He's halfway into his first statistics problem when Derek says “Why aren't you asleep?”

Stiles laughs at the unexpected question. He refuses to look at Derek; he doesn't want to see Derek sniffing his pillow again. That was just weird. (If by 'weird' you mean 'stupidly hot'.)

“I'm not good at it,” Stiles mumbles, trying to remember how to do factorials, and gnawing on the clip of his pencil.

“How can you not be good at sleep?” Derek asks, sounding sleepily horrified. “It's like, the easiest thing to close your eyes and go away for a while.”

“My brain doesn't like to shut down enough to fall asleep.” Stiles says, writing out the steps, even though he already knows the answer. He'll get points taken off if he doesn't, even if the answer is right.

“That sounds awful.” Derek sounds genuinely sad that Stiles doesn't get to enjoy falling asleep.

“Don't get me wrong, sometimes I can fall asleep easy, but mostly when I...” He trails off, trying to find a good way to phrase it, “am physically or mentally exhausted.” He writes out the next problem and has to erase it twice because he hates the sum sign.

“You mean when you've almost died because of us.” Derek says, so close to lucid that Stiles has to look at him just to make sure he hasn't been replaced by sober Derek while he wasn't looking.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes regretfully, “no offense to you guys or anything.” Derek still looks kind of drunk, his cheeks flushed, and his mouth loose and easy.

“Hmmph,” is what Derek says, which isn't anything. Stiles needs to stand, suddenly.

“Do you,” he starts, not knowing exactly where his mouth is going, “want a glass of water?” Stiles is pleased that his mouth didn't say anything stupid.

Derek nods, looking sleepy and young, shoving his cheek against Stiles's pillow.

Stiles goes down stairs, and paces in the kitchen a little, opening cabinets for no reason, and opening the fridge, looking for something to graze on, even though he knows he shouldn't.

He comes away with an apple and a stick of colby jack cheese. He grabs a glass and fills it from the tap, stuffs the apple in his mouth, and heads back upstairs. His house is big and lonely without his dad. Sometimes it's lonely with his dad. He opens the door, cheese balanced precariously across the top of the glass, drool sliding down his chin around the apple. He takes the apple out of his mouth, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie, and kicking the door behind him.

Derek's eyes light on the apple, the stick of cheese, and Stiles suddenly knows that he's not going to get to eat his snack.

He puts the glass down on his bedside table, where Derek could easily reach it. He crunches the bite of apple in his mouth, and hands the rest to Derek, who seems preoccupied with the place where Stiles had taken a bite.

“Beggars can't be choosers,” Stiles says, peeling the plastic covering of the cheese apart and taking a bite. Derek wraps his mouth around the place where Stiles's mouth had been, and licks the drool off the apple. It shouldn't be hot. It should be disgusting, but that doesn't stop his stomach from falling out with desire.

Stiles resolutely turns back to his homework.

“I can come over whenever I want,” Derek says, crunching a bite of apple, and Stiles doesn't say anything about talking with his mouth full, because Stiles is _not_ Derek's mom.

“Not what I meant.” Stiles says, patient.

“But I don't have to be dying to talk to you,” Derek continues.

“No,” Stiles agrees, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“So I can come over whenever I want.” Derek concludes, and it seems almost triumphant.

“A little notice would be nice,” Stiles says, “You can't just show up whenever.”

“Don't have your phone number,” Derek mumbles, and oh. _Oh._

“Well, that's going to have to change, isn't it?” Stiles smiles.

–

He goes back to his homework, after that, and manages to concentrate all the way through his econ chapter until he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

_hey_

_we're in the same room, Derek, why can't you just say it out loud?_

_you typed your response._ How Derek manages to sound smug via text message is a mystery to Stiles.

“You're an asshole,” Stiles says, turning to look at Derek's smug face. He could feel it, radiating from his bed. It's not exactly making it easy to concentrate right now.

“You like it,” Derek's voice is still smug, so he knows that Derek can totally smell _everything on him._.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles starts, “My ideas aren't always the best.”

Derek hums in response, a low pleased noise, and Stiles tries not to commit the noise to memory. He fails.

“We shouldn't be having this conversation,” Stiles says, “I'm seventeen and you're effectively drunk. Neither of us can give proper consent according to the State of California.”

Derek makes a sad noise in the back of his throat.

“Why me, anyway?” Stiles aks, not really expecting an answer.

“What big eyes you have,” Derek quotes.

Stiles gives Derek a disbelieving look. “No.” Stiles says, even though it wasn't a question.

“No, seriously. Your eyes, like, totally say things. They're gorgeous, and they always show what you're thinking, and you care so much for other people. You took care of me when you didn't have to.” Derek says, which has nothing to do with his eyes.

“That has nothing to do with my eyes,” Stiles breathes, so softly that if Derek weren't a werewolf, he wouldn't be able to hear.

“Doesn't matter. Still like your eyes. And you.” Derek seems to be falling asleep, which _finally_.

Derek pulls the blanket up, fisting it below his chin. He pulls it away for a second. “Do you want in?” Derek asks, almost shy.

“It's my bed,” Stiles says, trying to find his resolve to say no.

Derek looks slightly abashed. “Yeah.”

“Give me a couple of minutes, I've got to brush my teeth.”

Derek is asleep when he comes back, but he makes room for Stiles easily when he lifts the blanket.

“Hope you fall asleep easy,” Derek mumbles, and Stiles does.


End file.
